What to do when buildings have not quite caved
in to the demands of their roofs, the quarrels
of their blown windows, the fallen bricks saved
against a leaning wall, lost amid sorrel
springing wild and ever wilder, escaping
the boundaries of an imaginary garden?
When the shells of buildings still stand, reshaping
themselves, refusing to fall, their ardent
decayed displays are their own flowering,
that collapsing tiled concavity, rude
with a different flavour of souring
promise—the last dull shine, a gloss imbued
with failing years and childhood’s spectral palms,
the ragged song of timbers’ splintered psalms.